


Will you be my Kriskindle?

by sirona



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairytale, Alternate Universe - Magical creatures, Angst, Barebacking, Bonding, Bucky & Natasha bffs, Bucky finds a mate, Fluff, M/M, Phil & Pepper: planning bffs, Protectiveness, Sam is the god of puns, Steve has a dirty filthy mouth for Bucky, Team Feels, Tony Stark is still a genius, all the happy fluff, and sex, but they're magic so it's okay, clint sees better from a distance, discussion of unhappy mating but not for our boys, grumpy grouchy Bucky is my favourite, happy endings, let's have dinner, let's not forget the sex, or the devil if you ask Steve, putting one's foot in one's mouth: an Olympic sport, so this has a plot now huh, surprise procreation, sweet Merlin SO much fluff, unicorn Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because he was a unicorn did not mean he had to fall in love and mate for life, and those assholes could suck it because Bucky Barnes was not going to let himself be paraded before the screaming public just to raise some cash for the forest, no matter how good the cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which there is a beginning and Bucky's temper is introduced

**Author's Note:**

> Written for two reasons. One, Bucky Barnes _really is_ my special sparkly unicorn of all time. And two, there has been so much (astonishing, heart-wrenching, soul-deeply painful) post-CATWS fic and art out there, including the one I wrote, which nearly killed me, that I basically need all the fluff I can get, so. This is shamelessly fluffy, and just written for fun. Do not look for srs bsns here, I warn you.
> 
> Title from Bell X1's _I'll see your heart and I'll raise you mine_.
> 
> I'll keep adding to the tags as the story progresses. :D [EDIT] Now COMPLETE! :)

_It just wasn't fair,_ Bucky grumbled to himself as he finally slammed the door of his house behind his back and kicked off his shoes. He was perfectly happy living the life of a hermit; it was something he had chosen for himself a long time ago, and it had _nothing_ to do with being one of the last of his kind and chased by a gaggle of teenage virgin girls besotted with his good looks and mysterious air, courtesy of his personal mythology. He was not interested in being tamed by anyone - and anyway, the legend said 'a pure soul', which did not necessarily mean a pure _body_ , untouched by another, or whatever shit the Magical Red Council was publicising now. 

Just because he was a unicorn did not mean he had to fall in love and mate for life, and those assholes could suck it because Bucky Barnes was not going to let himself be paraded before the screaming public just to raise some cash for the forest, no matter how good the cause. His dating life was complicated enough as it was.

Shit, was this how Tony Stark felt _all the time_?

"I know that look," Natasha said from her seat curled up on his sofa. "What'd they do this time?"

Natasha, as the only _zhar-ptitsa_ * around those parts, knew exactly what it was like to be coveted for her species, and was therefore Bucky's only true friend.

"They wanna auction me off. 'Win a date with a unicorn! Who knows, you might be his one true love!' I'm gonna throw up. This is such _bullshit_."

Natasha hummed sympathetically. "Well, if they knew of your foul temper and dirtier mouth, I'm sure there would be far fewer volunteers," she mused.

Bucky gave her the stink-eye. "Shockingly, you are not actually helping," he growled. "What do you suggest, that I shift and go on a rampage? That'll get me locked up faster than you could say 'blood of virgins'."

Natasha, because she was actually a far better friend than Bucky deserved, got off the sofa, prowled to his booze cupboard and poured him a stiff vodka blackcurrant with plenty of ice. Bucky took it gratefully, downing half before collapsing into the armchair in front of the fireplace. 

"How come they always pick on us when it comes to personal space sacrifices?" he grouched, closing his eyes and letting his head fall against the squishy back of the chair. 

Natasha looked thoughtful. "Well," she said, in that 'be reasonable' tone that always got Bucky's hackles rising, "Clint and Coulson are a mated Centaur pair. Sam Wilson is impossible to catch up to most of the time, unless he wants you to, and then there's the _riddles_ and running that mouth of his. Bruce - they've still got antiquated notions about trolls around these parts, you know that, no matter how smart they actually are."

Bucky thought about this. "What about Thor and Loki?" he muttered. 

Natasha gave him a glare he shrank away from - he did know he was being childish, all right, just. 

"You wanna set _the sidhe_ off on innocent people?" she demanded. She wasn't letting him off the hook. Aw, hell.

"No," he pouted. Ugh. "Nor the wolves, either, so you can stop looking at me like that. Also, don't think I didn't notice your conspicuous exclusion of Stark from your little tirade, as well."

"Oh, you mean Tony Stark, the Dragon King? Auctioned off on a date to raise cash. Worse, he'll go for it, too, and then you'll have Pepper on your back. Quit while you're ahead, boyo, a Dragon Queen you _cannot_ handle."

Bucky sighed deeply, giving up. He got her point, just like she knew he would. When he opened his eyes again, her smile was softer than Bucky expected to get. She really was his best friend, and he was so grateful for her. His shoulders lost some of their rigidity as the warmth of it sank in, and he slumped deeper into the cushions, letting go of the fight-or-flight mode he'd been in ever since the Red Council called. 

"Who knows?" Natasha said placatingly. "You might actually find your mate in one of those people."

Bucky rubbed at his forehead, heart heavy. Not her, too. "It's been ninety-five years, Tasha. He, or she, is just not out there. I'm one of the last of our kind. We're dwindling more and more each year - there aren't enough fertile new foals born, not to mention that 'pure souls' just aren't all that easy to find anymore. Maybe I'm meant to die alone."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Drama queen," she said disapprovingly, but she pushed away from her perch on a bar stool and came over anyway, sliding to curl up in Bucky's lap and lay her head on his shoulder like a very content cat. _Zhar-ptitsi_ were much more feline than anyone knew, Bucky thought fondly, warmed by the thought that he was one of the very few people allowed to see that side of her. He carded his fingers through long, fine head feathers the colour of flame, and let the solid, simmering heat of her soothe his weary heart.

Maybe she was right. But he'd had too much hope dangled before him in his life, only to find it shatter into fragments in the cold light of unfeeling stars. He was damn tired of being treated like he should be grateful for the effort people put into finding him a mate. It wasn't like he could look at someone, decide he liked the look of them, and say 'yeah, you'll do, wanna mate me and live together forever?' His mom had once told him that finding The One was like a cannonball going off inside you, like electric fire spreading through your body, to the very tips of your fingers. Like your soul was being called upon, touched by another and made whole. It was nothing Bucky had experienced in his life so far. He'd come to wonder if his mom hadn't told him a little white lie, to give him something to hope for after another of his invariable disappointments. 

At this point, he was just as happy to be left alone to live out what was left of his preternaturally-long life without any more interventions. In fact, he'd prefer that, thanks. 

Natasha sighed in his arms, rubbing her cheek along his clavicle. "Do I need to call Rebecca?" she asked mildly. Bucky winced. His sister was one of the few people whose company he could tolerate, but she was just as unbearable as Natasha when it came to 'fixing' his mood. As if she hadn't been every inch as bad as him before she met Jimmy Falsworth! Ugh.

"For the love of god, no," he groaned. "Can't handle her loved-up lectures. I'll be fine, Tasha." It was even true. He would be fine. He just had to do this one little thing, and then they'd leave him alone again. "One stupid date." It's not like he hadn't done thousands of those in his long, long life. "How bad can it be?"

He ignored the shiver that crawled down his spine at his own words. It was just a draft from the half-closed door. Nothing life-shattering was going to happen. It never did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Zhar-ptitsa_ is a Firebird. In Slavic folklore, it is a magical glowing bird from a faraway land, which is both a blessing and a bringer of doom to its captor. You can find out more [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Firebird_\(Slavic_folklore\)). Seemed particularly fitting for Natasha. :)


	2. In which we meet Steve and find out why Sam Wilson is the worst friend

"What?" Steve said. "No."

Sam just stared at him.

"Sam, _no_ ," Steve tried again. 

"Aw, come on, Rogers," Sam whined. "It'll be fun! I hear he's real easy on the eye."

"Sam, I am not going to bid on a guy so I can go on a date with him."

Sam pouted. Steve steeled himself. There were _limits_ to what his good nature could guilt him into doing for his friends. 

"Are you gonna condemn him to go on a date with some besotted idiot, then? At least with you he can have a nice dinner and a good talk and you can go your separate ways after. Word is he's awfully miserable about being made to do this."

"So why is he, then? He can just say no," Steve pointed out, very reasonably, he thought.

Sam sighed, running a hand through his buzzed hair. "It's for the Forest's orphanage. They need to build a new wing, and they're drawing the line at taking more gold from Stark because they'll have to put his name on the door soon if they keep it up. There's too many displaced kids trickling to this end of the wood from all over the continent. We're the last safe, protected place for so many."

Steve's heart clenched in his chest. God, if he had the means, he'd make the transfer himself right then, date or no date.

But he didn't. He was barely making ends meet as it was, since he came back from helping out at their stronghold in Europe. They'd given him so much when he was just an orphan kid himself, he could never repay them. 

Something had to change for the magical community. They couldn't keep going like this. He'd already been thinking about having a talk with Fury about how to approach the Red Council with an idea he'd had, a shield of a kind that would keep them from being discovered but would let them out in their human forms, so that the adults could hold jobs in the real world and come back to their homes in the Forest in the evenings. It was a long-term project, through, and this money was needed right now.

God, sometimes he wished being a Phoenix was good for something more than healing himself when he needed it. Some of the older phoenixes were as rich as Stark, having had hundreds of years to accumulate wealth, but Steve was only ninety-eight years old. He was barely getting started, and being abandoned at birth hadn't helped. He had no idea who his parents were, or why they'd disappeared on him – but he had an inkling it wasn't of their own free will. More likely than not, some human had got lucky. After all, even phoenixes could be killed – if made to regenerate too fast enough times, they burned themselves out. It was a horrible way to go. Steve hoped his parents were still alive somewhere, if only for his own peace of mind.

"Hey," came Sam's sympathetic voice, jerking Steve out of his pensive mood. "I didn't say that to make you upset. Just—Stark's got a plan, okay. He needs a frontman, is all. He'll provide the cash. You just take the unicorn on a date."

"Jesus," Steve muttered under his breath, rubbing both hands through his hair. "This isn't how I pictured meeting the neighbours."

Sam winced on his behalf. 

"Yeah, well. Sometimes, you gotta take one for the team."

Steve made a face at him. "Why am I friends with you again?" he asked churlishly.

Sam grinned, showing off all of his white, pointed teeth. "'Cause you can't burn a Sphinx, bro, and let me tell you, you've got a temper on ya. You and the unicorn're gonna hit it off from the start, I just know it."

Steve wasn't convinced. He'd learned a thing or two about unicorns over the years. There had been one in France; Peggy, her name was. She got to be one of Steve's best friends, tried for more before Steve gently told her that he wasn't into that kinda plumbing. She still stuck around after, said there was something about him, a purity she found calming. Steve hadn't been sure what to say then, and now, faced with meeting one of her kind whose plumbing actually appealed, he...well, he was actually terrified, not that he was going to admit it. Unicorns weren't the only ones who mated for life, and while the concept appealed to Steve rather more than he let on, it was still upsetting to think that you might not have a choice whom you fell in love with. He just wasn't ready to be put on the spot like that.

But. There was always a 'but', wasn't there? But, he imagined this unicorn being fawned over and lusted after by people wanting to have a bit of his magic spilling over on them, and his heart overfilled with sympathy for the poor guy. He might be one of those of his kind who loved that, got off on the attention, but if he was anything like Peggy...

Well. Steve had always been told that he had a protective streak a mile wide. God, he _was_ going to do this, wasn't he?

"All right," he sighed. "How is this gonna work?"

Sam grinned from ear to ear, stretching languorously on Steve's couch, his tail curling over his shoulder like a curious pet. 

"Stark said to just go with it. Go to the auction, chat with people, then just bid until you're the winner."

"What's my budget?"

Sam gave him a look.

"No, seriously," Steve insisted. "There's gotta be some price Stark won't go over."

"Tony Stark," Sam said, eyebrows raised. "The Dragon King," he added, like Steve needed that pertinent fact clarified for him. "The one with the pile of gold bigger than the Mayor's residence. You think Tony Stark has a top limit."

Steve shrugged. Fine. If that's how it was, then that was how he'd play it. The guy wasn't gonna cost that much, right? There couldn't be _that_ many people wanting to go out with an unmated, surly unicorn.

"When's this thing going down?"

Sam scrunched his nose. "Next week, I think. I'll call Natasha, get it confirmed."

Well now. _That_ got Steve's attention.

"Natasha _Romanova_?" he said, trying not to let his excitement build up just to get smashed back down again. "Natasha Romanova is _here_?"

Sam threw him a teasing smirk. 

"She is, yeah. Been living here the past eight years. Something about an arranged marriage she didn't have the stomach for. Fury got her approved to be brought in. Heard the fiance wasn't too happy about it."

"That's an understatement," Steve muttered. Johann Schmidt was an absolute prick of a phoenix, the only person of his kind Steve hated above and beyond what even he thought he was capable of. "Ran into him in Stuttgart, thought I'd have to actually force him into regeneration. He does not like being told no.

"I would really like to meet her," he added after a moment of thought. He felt the tips of his ears heat at the look Sam sent him. "Not like that," he insisted, stifling the urge to fidget. 

Sam threw back his head and laughed at him outright. "I know, man," he said, choking back a giggle. "But your face, though. You're too easy to rile up, Rogers. Like a confused puppy sometimes."

"Woof woof," Steve grunted, but didn't rise to the bait. There were only so many puppy puns he could take before he tried to throw Sam out of the window, _again_.

Sam wiped away tears of mirth, subsiding into gentle giggles. "I can set that up," he said generously. "Hey, we might get you a face-to-face with Barnes before the auction, too. Ya know, horse around a little before the big race?"

Steve smacked a palm over his face as Sam started laughing again at his own horrible, horrible jokes. 

"Hey, Rogers, don't rein in the fun," Sam gasped. Steve gave him the stink-eye. "No, no, seriously, you're never pasture prime to get back in the saddle," Sam wheezed. 

Steve was _so_ done with this shit, seriously.

"Wait, ya know why you ride horses during the day?" Sam croaked as Steve pushed him out of the door. He leaned on the wall outside Steve's apartment so he didn't fall over from hysterical laughter. Steve slammed the door in his face, ignoring the "Because you don't get night mares!" shouted through the wooden barrier and the resulting howls of mirth.

"Call me when you have a date," Steve called back.

"Yo, that's tonight, baby, I'm hot to trot," Sam yelled. 

Steve spent the couple of minutes it took for Sam's laughter to fade down the stairs shaking his head and bemoaning his life. Then, he sighed, and went to see if he still had anything suitable to wear on a date with an undoubtedly-gorgeous-enough-to-make-his-breath-hitch unicorn, who would probably spend it glaring at him and wishing he was anywhere but in Steve's company.

"It's for the children," Steve told himself firmly, holding up one light blue and one mossy green button-down shirt and trying to decide which one would make him look less like a horrible match for Barnes in the looks department. 

He could do this. 

Honestly, the date probably wouldn't even last long enough to eat dessert.


	3. In which Phil Coulson's life is the hardest and Tony Stark is a world-class menace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly do not know what even is going on anymore. How did this manage to sprout a plot now?? /0\
> 
> We will return to your regularly-scheduled fluffy angsty feels in the next instalment, promise. This one... as with most things, it's all Tony Stark's fault.

"All right, everybody," Fury said, rapping his knuckles on the rosewood table that spanned nearly the entire length of the room. The six of them were gathered around one end, two chairs taken away so that Clint and Phil could lounge comfortably with the rest of them. "Let's call this meeting to order."

"Whatever you say, Nick, as long as I don't have to listen to you lot attempt to strategise," Stark said, fingers tapping away at a shimmering square of light held in one hand. Phil would bet anything that this was gonna make Stark his next pile of gold all by itself, because Phil immediately coveted one of those for his own.

Not that he was actually going to _tell_ Stark this. The guy's ego did not need any more inflating.

"You don't actually need to be here, Stark," Fury growled, eye flashing. 

Stark sighed. "I know you think that. But if I were to leave the planning of this shindig up to you, we'd never have any fun at all. So, in fact, I _do_ have to be here, if only so I won't die of boredom next week for the three hours Pepper is gonna want to put in."

Pepper Potts, sitting primly at Stark's left, shot Phil a speaking, exasperated look. Phil looked away immediately, because it would not do to burst into laughter in the middle of what all involved had been told is a very important meeting. 

"What I do want to know, however," Stark went on, putting his magical version of a tablet on the table and giving them all of his undivided, skewering attention, "is what the Red Council is playing at. I can't have been the only one to notice that they're going against what is actually going to benefit the Forest just so they can cut off my nose to spite me. Or whatever. That metaphor kinda ran away from me. My point stands. What the hell is going on, Nick?"

Nick Fury sighed. At six-foot-two, skin black as a pool of darkest chocolate, he cut an imposing figure – even more so when he looked this troubled.

"You're not wrong, Stark," he conceded. Good. They were actually talking about this. "I have heard some worrying rumours, especially when coupled with a certain trend. Phil?"

Phil got up, shaking his brown tail to hang properly again. "Clint and I have been talking," he started, only to feel his eye twitch when Stark leered at him. 

"Oh, is _that_ what we call it nowadays," he smirked. "Always good to catch up on the lingo-- _ow_ , Pepper, what was that for?!" he whined, throwing Pepper's serene face a wounded look.

Maria cleared her throat, narrowing her eyes on him.

"Stark," she growled. Stark shrank back in his chair, holding his hands up in surrender. 

"Keep those talons away from me, lady," he grumbled. 

" _If_ you're quite finished, Stark," Fury said, skin glowing softly with his faerie magic. 

Stark made a face, but subsided, pointedly giving Phil his attention.

"Do tell what Hawkeye here saw that we didn't," he said, because God forbid Stark ever did something quietly and humbly.

"As I was saying, Clint and I have been talking. After correlating the data from the expenditure and budget announcements this past year, Clint has pointed out to me, and I agree, that most of the expenditure has been targeted to make the denizens of the Forest _more_ dependent on the Red Council, not less. Your father, Stark, had the right idea – give power to the people, give them the tools to make a life for themselves that didn't make them beholden to the Council for their survival. As things stand now? Apart from a select few, none of the people who call this Forest their home could make it out in the real world. This is why we're in trouble, and our economy is shrinking. We need fresh disposable income, and people can only have that if they can compete on the job market outside of the limits of the Forest's traditional trades.

"So the question is: is the Council afraid of people leaving if they are let outside? Or are they planning something more sinister to affect lives for the worse and hold onto power in the resulting confusion?"

"I don't like it either way," Clint growls from where he kneels at Phil's side, shaggy golden tail twitching irritably. "Something oughta be done."

"Indeed," Fury agreed. "And I may have a plan for that. I wonder, how many of you knew that Steve Rogers is back in town?"

Stark's face wrinkled in distaste. "Captain Boyscout? What's he gotta do with anything?"

Phil rolled his eyes, somehow managing to rein in the urge to smack Stark on the back of his head. Honestly, he could be such a damn child sometimes. 

"Captain Rogers is the only combat-trained phoenix on this continent," Phil said testily. "He has knowledge of both offensive and defensive protection magic. He is, in fact, the only person who can throw a shield that allows our people in as well as out of the Forest, but doesn't damage their magic in the process. Something, which I don't see _you_ contributing towards, Stark."

Stark's nostrils flared, emitting two thin trails of smoke. "That's not how my magic works, and you know it, Coulson," he growled. 

Phil shrugged. "Yes. I do know. I'm glad to see you know your own limitations, too. Things would go a lot smoother if you agreed to work with Captain Rogers on this," he suggested.

Stark bristled, but subsided when Pepper put her hand lightly on his arm. "Yeah, okay," he agreed with ill grace. "That actually sounds kinda interesting."

Phil just about managed to keep back his grin at Stark's grudgingly animated tone. 

He should have known it would be too good to last. 

"I don't see how that contributes towards making sure the auction doesn't suck bricks, though. And where's Barnes? Shouldn't he be here to go over the plan?"

Phil sighed wearily. Stark was going to be the death of him some day, he was certain.

"Let me," Clint whispered, leaning close. Phil gratefully knelt down again as his mate pushed up to his feet, dancing a little with the joy of being able to move freely again. 

"No, actually, he shouldn't be," Clint said, a small smile playing over his mouth. "He should act as surprised as anyone in that room, if the Council are gonna be fooled. We can't let them see that we're onto them, okay? Or the whole counter-attack is gonna go to hell in a handbasket."

Stark nodded thoughtfully. "Legolas has a point," he murmured. Clint rolled his eyes, but didn't rise to the bait. Phil tried (and probably failed) to hide how proud and—there was no denying it—hot Clint had him without the slightest effort.

"So who's your frontman for the auction, Stark?" Maria asked, face as inscrutable as always but for the spark of interest deep in her icy-blue eyes. 

Stark shrugged. "Don't know. Wilson sent word he found one, though, and I trust him to know what he's doing."

"I concur, ma'am," Clint said, back straight. "If Sam Wilson says he has the right person, then he does. I think it might be best if none of us know too much about what's going to go down at the auction, for the same reason as keeping Barnes in the dark. It's enough that we know we've a plan in place for the eventuality of the Council double-crossing us and screwing over the orphanage." 

He paused, head bowed, hands squeezed into white-knuckled fists at his side. "With respect, you need to know that I'm not gonna let that happen, no matter what I have to do. Nobody touches my kids," he growled. 

Phil was so in love with him it was actually painful, the way his heart contracted in his chest.

Pepper smiled kindly, placing a hand on Clint's arm. "No one's gonna mess with the kids, Clint. You have my word on that. We'll come out on top of this yet. We're a formidable team, and I have faith in each and every one of us."

Clint looked at her from under thick blond eyelashes. "Thank you, Ms Potts," he murmured, bowing his head out of deference this time, rather than to hide the violence in his pale blue eyes that Phil was so intimately familiar with. Clint was the kindest man in existence – until someone threatened one of his kids, at which time they would be lucky if Clint didn't skewer them on the spot with an arrow from the quiver permanently strapped to his back, stereotypes be damned.

"Right then," Stark said cheerfully, clapping his hands. "How many cases of champagne do we need to order? What about caviare? Or, and a bunch of burgers, you gotta have real food at an event like this, not all of you can survive on fine scotch like I can."

"Breathe, baby," Clint whispered in Phil's ear, smirking when Phil slanted him a look from the corner of his eye. "You've gone all red. Remember, we can't kill Stark. It would be pandemonium on the streets."

Phil sighed through clenched teeth. Across from him Maria had leaned forward, one curved talon tapping the table as she explained a particular point to Stark, who was frowning doubtfully with his mouth open as if to launch into his next point. Fury was looking at the ceiling, likely begging for patience, and Pepper – well.

Pepper smiled at Phil and slid a tidy list along the table to lie in front of him. It was bullet-pointed and colour-coded. 

Phil exhaled for what felt like the first time all day, feeling Clint pat his hand and move away to join the argument, distracting the others further from what Phil and Pepper were up to so that they could finish their work in peace.

He was so in for a reward later, Phil thought, before refocusing all of his attention on Pepper's proposal. There would be time aplenty for distraction after they were done.


	4. In which Bucky and Steve meet...and it really does not go according to anyone's plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the bloody hell is going on, this was supposed to be a fluff fest, _goddamn you Bucky Barnes_. /0\ Sorry, folks. It'll all get fixed, I promise. D:

It was the day of the auction, and Bucky was outside the back door of the Mayor's Residence and Red Council headquarters, smoking a cigarette like his life depended on it. It was a filthy, disgusting habit, and he'd be in for it once Natasha found out (and she would. She always did somehow), but he was too nervous to care just then.

He was good at doing things he might not necessarily want to. He was good at compartmentalising, and pushing back his unease, and doing what was expected of him. Being a unicorn meant a long line of archaic, discombobulating traditions whose purpose, more often than not, no one actually remembered, but that were still considered _essential_ to what being a unicorn meant. 

It was one reason why Bucky no longer saw much of his extended family. There were only so many virgins he could have thrown at him before he really was running, screaming, for the hills.

And now here he was, practically fetishising his breeding for the amusement of the punters. My, how far the mighty have fallen, he thought wryly. If his asshole uncle caught wind of this, Bucky would never hear the last of it.

In a fit of desperation, he thought about growing out his hair and growing a beard and disappearing into the wilderness, away from people and their expectations. 

\--Except then some dickhead would make a 'ponytail' crack, and Bucky would actually have to kill them. So. Probably safer to stay put all round.

"Hey hey, what's with the long face, shouldn't you be inside primping and getting ready to put on a show?"

Bucky turned around, scowling at Tony Stark's wide, teeth-filled grin. The man was a walking advertisement billboard of what it was like to be rich and famous. He was loud and overbearing and obnoxious, but something about him had always appealed to Bucky. Maybe the fact that he never gave a shit about what people thought of him. That he was unapologetically, 100% exactly who he was – Anthony Stark, heir to the Dragon King's fortune and throne. Bucky had to give it to Stark; under his wing, the few dragons that remained around the world had it better than ever before. 

If only all species had someone with their best interests at heart looking out for them. Things would be very different for a lot of them.

Despite Bucky's less-than-warm welcome, Stark smiled at him. It was surprisingly sympathetic.

"Yeah, I know, buddy. The spotlight can be a bitch. But don't worry. We've got your back."

Bucky's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline, because _what?_

Stark tapped at the side of his nose. "Mum's the word," he advised, winking at Bucky before disappearing back inside, leaving behind a faint whiff of expensive cologne and a touch of brimstone. 

"The hell?" Bucky muttered to himself, feeling more confused than ever.

He didn't have more than a couple of minutes to puzzle over Stark's cryptic pronouncement before Sam Wilson walked in his line of sight, towing after him a tall, blond, _very_ well-proportioned man who looked vaguely familiar. The man was dressed in a light blue shirt, and indigo jeans that made his legs look like they went on for miles. The shirt was a little tight on him, but that only made the line of his shoulders stand out more – wide, sturdy. Like they were used to bearing burdens.

"Come on, man," Wilson was saying, tail flicking irritably behind him. "You said you were fine with this. You said you'd take one for the team. You said you wouldn't leave Barnes hanging--"

 _Wait, what?_ Bucky had time to think, before the unhappiness in the man's face registered. His generous mouth was pulled down at the corners, his forehead scrunched, his eyes pinched. Bucky knew the look of a man who was being made to do something he really didn't want to.

Now, if he could only work out what that had to do with _him_.

"Sam, stop. I'm fine. I said I'd do it, and I will, so no need to treat me like a teenager who won't get out of bed. And if you can cease yanking me around, too, I'd appreciate that."

Wilson stopped in his tracks, dropping the man's wrist. He turned around, looking into the man's face with narrowed eyes, searching it for God knew what.

"So what's got your panties in a twist, then?" he demanded. "It's not that he's a unicorn, right? I mean. I thought you liked that kinda thing."

The man's face flushed fetchingly. Bucky, despite himself, was leaning forward, hanging on every word.

"No, it's not that. I just--" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. Wilson slapped it away, reaching up to tweak a couple of strands before the man ducked away with a growl that did funny things to Bucky's insides. "Sam, will you fucking stop? I'm damn tired of being made to feel like the ugly duckling here."

Wilson's eyebrows rose in disbelief as he ran a practised eye down the man's body. Bucky couldn't help but do the same. 'Ugly' and this man definitely did not fit in the same sentence.

"Really, Rogers? Really? You're more like a chick than a duckling, anyway, I mean, you bring out the protective in everyone."

Apparently-Rogers just glared at Wilson some more. Wilson put up his hands.

"All right, all right, buddy. What's this really about?"

Rogers shrugged, looking as uncomfortable as any man Bucky had ever seen. 

"I just don't like all this deception. I wish there was a way to let Barnes know it was all a set-up. You know. That I'm a phony."

Bucky blinked fast, mouth dry. This had to be about the auction. Nothing else made sense.

Wilson's expression gentled. He patted Rogers' shoulder. "It'll be fine, Steve. It's just one date. Take him out, show him a good time, send him home. Even you can't pass on spending a few hours with a pretty dude."

Rogers flushed again, deeper this time. "No, that part's fine," he said dryly. Then he shifted on his feet. "I just don't want him to get the wrong impression."

Wilson shook his head. "Do you even know what the right impression is right now?" he asked kindly.

Rogers smiled ruefully, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest, seeming to shrink in on himself. Wilson sighed. 

"Look. I wouldn't even be pushing you on this, but this is important, okay? At least, Clint says it is, and I tend to trust his judgement. There's bigger things going on than we know. So. Can I count on you to play your role?"

Rogers nodded sheepishly, still looking down at the ground. He mustered a small smile. "It's not like it would be hard. I saw a photo of him. He's--" He didn't finish, just shook his head, like he couldn't find the words.

Wilson grinned. It reminded Bucky of Stark's grin – too many teeth. "Exactly," Wilson said, stabbing a finger at Rogers' chest. "Now, is your little crisis over? Can we go in already? Because Barnes is probably chewing his hooves off wanting this thing over."

Something sad passed over Rogers' face, like a cloud briefly obscuring the sun. He heaved in a deep breath. 

"Yeah," he said, so quietly that Bucky almost didn't catch it. "Yeah, let's get this over with."

Something small and tight clenched in Bucky's chest. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was stepping out from the shadow thrown by the decorative eaves of the building, and saying – quite loudly, too – "Well, I'm sorry the idea of going out with me is such a chore for you."

Rogers and Wilson both jumped, whirling in place to face him. Bucky noted with satisfaction that Rogers' face had gone white.

"Shit," Rogers said, remorse in his eyes. "Shit, that wasn't—Barnes, you've got it all wrong."

Bucky sniffed disdainfully. "I highly doubt that," he drawled, as coldly and disinterestedly as he could make it. "So don't bother trying to explain. Is this what Stark meant when he said 'you' had my back?" he asked Wilson.

Wilson, who had gone as still and grey as Rogers, cleared his throat. "Kinda?" he said. "He didn't really tell me much, just that it was real important that no one knew we'd planned all this."

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek. If Wilson said Barton told him this was bigger than it seemed, Bucky was inclined to believe him. There was something that didn't sit quite right with this whole shebang, even he could feel that.

"Fine," he gritted out. "Don't worry, I'll play my part. Won't be the first unsavory thing I've had to do."

He ignored the stricken look on Rogers' face, turning his back on them and heading inside, back as straight and rigid as he could make it. 

God, just one more thing to make this day the worst in his immediate memory. And to think that he had begun to hope—but no. He should have known better. That was just not the way his life went. That someone would find the idea of dating him so abhorrent—he wasn't some narcissistic shit, he knew that not everyone would fall at his feet at the mere idea of going out with him, but it was still a heavy weight in his chest, to have heard it stated in so many words.

Never mind. This just made things easier. He knew exactly what he was getting himself in for now, so he could dispense with stupid emotions. He took a deep, calming breath, noting that the nervous butterflies from earlier had all but disappeared. He grit his teeth, and walked into the Great Hall, which had been transformed into a ballroom for the occasion, filled with tables and a raised dais at one end, where presumably Bucky had to go stand and be ogled at by all and sundry. 

At least he wouldn't get saddled with some besotted person who expected him to produce rainbows and glitter on demand. Whatever else, Rogers seemed like a pragmatic man. Besides, since he was clearly not looking forward to their date, Bucky could get plastered without feeling like a horrible disappointment. And then he could go home, get over his invariable hangover, and things could go back to normal. Being a kindergarten teacher might not seem like much to _some_ people, but it was nice to be around souls not yet sullied by the grime of reality that came with adulthood, and he could be himself without worrying about how it might look to people to stamp his foot and create rainbows bouncing off the exposed beams of his classroom.

Just get through this weekend. He could do that.


	5. In which Steve's life is never easy and his willpower is severely tested

Steve had never in his life felt more like an absolute tool as he did right then, watching Barnes' stiff form disappear through the dark entrance at the top of the stairs. Shit, could this thing _get_ any worse?

"Aw, _man_ ," Sam drawled, sounding about as miserable as Steve felt. "This whole fucking situation must be cursed or something." 

Steve had no idea whether or not it was, but he did know that if he never saw that look of hopeless dejection on Barnes' face again, it'd be too soon.

It didn't occur to him to question how it was that he knew what Barnes was feeling. He just...did, like it was etched inside his own lungs, on his spleen, in his stomach, and he was more interested in working out how to fix it than asking philosophical questions that wouldn't help one bit. Look where all that thinking got him: unwittingly hurting even more a guy who was already in a tough situation. 

"Right," he said decisively. He had made his bed, now he had to go lie in it. (Figuratively speaking. He didn't want to think about lying in beds in connection with Barnes. He was distracted enough as it was.) "Nothing we can do now. Let's just get on with it. I'll apologise later; we'll have plenty of time during our date for me to grovel for as long as necessary. Right now, it's more important that we all play our parts."

Sam was looking at him strangely. 

"What?" Steve said defensively. "You don't think it's a good plan?"

"No, I do," Sam said, shaking his head. "I just...didn't expect you to take point on this."

Steve made a face, realising for the first time just what a dick he's been through this whole thing so far. 

"Well," he said, clearing his throat and looking up at the imposing building. "It's not my idea of a good time, but it's obvious that my sensitive nature isn't what's needed here."

It made Sam chuckle, which had been Steve's intention. If only Barnes was as easy to placate. The way he'd looked, standing in front of the honey stone of the building, drenched in sunlight – it was as if he had glowed from within, entirely magical. His pale blue eyes, shimmering with hurt at Steve's careless words, had stabbed Steve right in the heart. He had to make amends. He had to.

Time passed so fast after that, Steve barely had a chance to catch his breath and admire the great hall, beautifully decorated in whites and yellows and oranges, before the lights were dimming and a beam was focusing on the central dais where Barnes stood. He had changed from his stripey t-shirt and worn jeans into a gorgeous silver-grey suit, looking apprehensive and as if all he wanted was to be a million miles away, preferably off-world. The Council members were arranged on a long table to the side, dressed in a variety of bright colours and extravagant accessories, as was the habit of most fae. Fury stood out like a sore thumb in his black attire, effortlessly catching the attention of the room – apart from Steve's own, because good Lord, he could not look away from Barnes. He looked every inch the haughty, aristocratic unicorn stallion that he was. He didn't even have to shift to prove it – with those chiseled cheekbones and that wide forehead, he looked outerworldly enough just standing there under the spotlight. Steve wondered dazedly if he would be pure white when he shifted, as his pale skin implied, or if he would be that rarest of rare – a black unicorn. The wavy, longish hair on the top of his head hinted tantalisingly at the possibility. 

Steve's palms tingled, yearning to run his hands through that hair, find out if it would feel as soft on his skin as it looked from a distance.

Christ. What was happening to him? He needed to get himself together, because this part would require all of his concentration. Already, he could see the way the attention in the room sharpened when Barnes stepped forward; he could almost feel the lecherous looks thrown Barnes' way, and he had to grab the seat of his chair with both hands not to react to the whispered intentions he could hear all around him. His heart pounded, urging him to leap forward and shield Barnes with his body, his power. 

He had never felt that way before in his life.

Mercifully, Fury chose that moment to put Steve out of his misery. His deep, resonant voice filled the room, amplified by one of Tony Stark's enhanced sound crystals.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and others, thank you for attending this event, the proceedings from which will go directly to the Forest's Home for Displaced Children. First lot of the night is a very special opportunity – our resident unicorn, Mister James Barnes, has graciously agreed to have dinner with our highest bidder. I am sure all of you can appreciate what a rare occasion this is. Therefore, the bidding will start at two hundred gold pieces. Do I hear two hundred?"

Steve did not have time to tell himself to put up his arm. Around him, the bidding was coming hard and fast: two hundred, five hundred, one thousand, four thousand. Steve's skin burst out in a layer of cold sweat. He had never seen this much money before in his life. Even Stark's voice was heard, throwing in the odd bid, presumably so he didn't stand out by _not_ conspicuously throwing around his wealth. 

Ten long, long minutes later, the bidding started to taper off. They were up to eighteen thousand gold pieces when Tony Stark and his Queen put on a pretty show for the unaware public: Ms Potts leaned in, saying something into his ear that made his eyes glow and burn, and a sharp, gloating smile take over his face. He subsided into his chair, waving off Fury's next demand for a bid. People laughed; others scowled; no one knew any better. 

It looked like it was time for Steve to join in. He looked at Barnes, something he hadn't let himself do so far for fear of what he might do. He didn't trust himself – he had never reacted to anyone this way before. Barnes stood tall and contained, face set in an emotionless mask, thousand-yard stare fixed somewhere to the back of the room. His breathing appeared slow and calm, but his hands were clasped at the small of his back and his shoulders were tense and his feet were set wide – like a soldier standing at attention. Something about it made Steve's gut clench with sympathy. 

There were three bidders still in the game. The first was a slim, shifty-looking man in a dark suit, whose eyes made Steve's fists reflexively tighten. There was a small, knife-sharp smile lingering on the man's lips, like he knew a secret no one else suspected. 

The second was a beautiful blond woman dressed in a gown of pure white, the fur of some poor animal thrown over her creamy shoulders. She kept licking her lips. Steve felt his blood boil, and had to stamp hard on the feeling of heat rising to the surface. There was _no way_ he was shifting in the middle of a room full of people. This was embarrassing enough as it was.

The third was an elderly dark-skinned woman dressed in a shimmering deep-blue gown, gnarly fingers decorated with seven bejeweled rings. Her shrewd black eyes constantly flitted from one rival bidder, to the other, to the dais where Barnes stood, and back again. Steve had no idea why, but he felt instinctively comforted to know that she was in the running, too. 

Still, when a couple of minutes later Fury said, "Twenty-five thousand gold pieces, do I hear thirty?", Steve did not hesitate to raise his hand. 

"Fifty thousand," he said flatly. He didn't raise his voice, but he didn't have to; the room went deathly quiet for a fraction of a moment, before exploding with stifled whispers.

"Fifty thousand gold pieces from a new bidder," Fury said, verbally accepting the bid even as his eyebrows rose and his remaining eye widened with surprise. Huh. Looked like even the top brass didn't know everything about Stark's plan. 

Abruptly, Steve felt the eyes of an entire room-full of creatures focus on him. It was a singularly awful experience; he longed to fold in on himself, to run, to just disappear. He had never done well with people's attention and expectations weighing him down. Phoenixes might be born leaders, but most of them preferred to lead from the background, or in the middle of a squad of like-minded people. To be comfortable in this position, Steve had to have someone else watching his back, someone he trusted to be there, to watch out for him. 

In this room, he felt utterly alone, skewered by the looks of surprise, disdain, speculative interest, and outright demand to know what the hell he thought he was doing, how dared he have ideas above his place. (He might have been projecting that last one. It had been many, many years since he had voluntarily submitted himself to such scrutiny, and it clearly was not doing him any favours.)

The only way to get through this was to keep calm and carry on, Steve knew that from experience. So he schooled his face in the blankest of looks that he was capable of, and stared towards the front of the room, ignoring the slimy way his fellow creatures' eyes slid over him. It was a shock to find his own eyes caught in Barnes', an unreadable look on his face as he stared Steve down. Steve swallowed and squared his shoulders, straightened his back. At his side, he could feel Sam's elbow pressed to his, a silent show of support. Surprisingly, Steve found that he didn't need it as much as he had thought he would. The way Barnes looked at him, the slight stiffening of his body, the twitch at the corners of his mouth, as if he didn't know whether he wanted to frown or smile – it had Steve's own attention ensnared, as if no one else but the two of them existed in the room. 

"Fifty-five thousand," the slimy man said, glaring daggers at Steve. 

"Sixty," Steve said. He found himself reclining back into his chair, all of a sudden thoroughly relaxed. Knowing that his budget was limitless, and that he was going to be the one taking Barnes out whatever the cost, did wonders for his composure. Add to it the fact that he could not care less what other people thought about him, and really? Steve hadn't felt this calm in years.

"Seventy thousand," purred the blond woman, tapping long red fingernails on the tabletop before her. 

"Seventy-five thousand," the man hissed. Was it just Steve's imagination, or was he glistening slightly, as if his skin was made of scales?

"Eighty thousand," said the black woman. She had a slight West Indies accent that warmed her words and made her voice feel like liquid chocolate looked. 

"Ninety," Steve said. Barnes' eyes snapped back to his, slightly wider than before. Steve wondered why it was that Barnes was surprised – he'd known Stark had a plan, he'd said as much. Was it because Steve was not giving up? Was Barnes really so unused to people sticking up for him, going out of their way to have his back?

Whatever the reason, Steve found himself wanting to prove to Barnes that he at least was not the kind of person to walk away from a mission – or from a friend.

"One hundred thousand gold pieces," said the blond woman languidly, like it made no difference to her whatsoever; like she was bidding a fortune just to pass the time. Something about her did not sit right with Steve at all.

The slim man threw himself back in his seat with a snarl, flicking his hand dismissively. The blond woman looked satisfied, like the cat who had successfully stalked her bird. The black woman...

The black woman was looking right at Steve. Her eyes shone with keen intelligence, and she raised an eyebrow just the slightest bit. Steve had no idea what she was looking for from him, but he sent her a slight, self-deprecating smile in return. She leaned back, mouth splitting in a wide grin that was possibly a touch too knowing for Steve's liking. He fought down the flush of heat trying to rise into his face. She could not possibly know what was going through his head—could she?

Whatever the case, the lady also waved her hand when Fury looked at her to bid next. It was just Steve left now – and the awful woman who was sizing him up from across the floor. 

"Careful," Sam whispered from his sprawl next to Steve. "She's a Lamia."

That meant jack-shit to Steve, if he was honest, but in any case, there was no way, short of Stark standing up and telling him to cut it out, that he was backing off.

"One hundred and fifty thousand," he said flatly.

There were audible gasps around the room. The woman in white shot Steve a poisonous look. 

"One hundred and eighty thousand," she said.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand," Steve said. He looked right at her as he did, trying to pitch his voice to project that he was an unmovable object and he did not care for her attempts at intimidation.

He had no idea if that's what made her reconsider, or whether it was the money, or whether she just didn't want Barnes enough – although that concept felt truly alien to Steve. Who could look at Barnes, tall and proud and so achingly beautiful, and not want him? But whatever it was, she sank slowly back into her chair, staring at Steve with the kind of flat, emotionless gaze that gave Steve the heebie-jeebies. 

"Two hundred and fifty thousand golden pieces, going once, going twice—sold, to Mister Steve Rogers. The Forest thanks you, sir. Please make your arrangements after the auction is over. Now, moving on to lot two, this exquisite onyx and gold sculpture of a dragon's egg, generously donated by Ms Virginia Potts. The bidding will start at one thousand gold pieces. Do I hear one thousand?"

But Steve wasn't listening any longer. All his attention was narrowed on the figure of James Barnes slinking off the stage, looking small and uncertain and so grateful to be away from the limelight that it tugged at something inside Steve's chest, made him want to rush over and do something, anything, that might comfort him.

"Well played," Sam said quietly from the place on his right. Steve jumped at least half a foot, so startled was he to be reminded that there were other people in the room with him.

"Thanks," he muttered, finding that he had to clear his throat at least once to stop mangling his words. "I hope Stark isn't unhappy with the final amount it took to settle this."

Sam slapped his shoulder, grinning at him. "He was prepared to go to a million. I'm sure Ms Potts would have had a thing of two to say about it, if he'd planned on going on that date himself, though. Better all round, this way."

Steve hummed, hoping it wasn't as obvious as it felt to him that the idea of Tony Stark taking Barnes out was not making him particularly happy. 

"Should be an interesting date, huh," Sam said when Steve didn't reply, amusement thick in his voice. 

Steve winced. "If he doesn't kill me within the first ten minutes," he muttered.

Sam gave him the eyebrow treatment again. "The way you two were eyeing each other up? I'd count on a much more vigorous activity taking place, if you get my meaning."

This time, there was no stifling the flush that took over Steve's face. 

"Sam," he hissed, wanting to hide under the table, or really, make any kind of graceful exit. That didn't seem like it was a possibility in his near future. 

"What?" Sam said, grinning at him in a distressingly knowing way. "You telling me you don't want a piece of that ass? 'Cause if you are, you'd better learn to lie worth a damn."

"Oh my god," Steve said, only just resisting dropping his head in his hands. 

The end of the auction, half an hour later, brought no further relief. Sure, the amount raised was a very nice sum of money, and nothing came even close to earning the first lot's price, but Steve felt no better about what was coming. He avoided the blond woman and slim man as best he could, as he headed towards the side door that lead to the smaller room outside the hall, but he could not avoid Natasha Romanova's speculative look and Tony Stark's leering thumbs-up, none of which made him feel any better about the next fifteen minutes. 

He had almost made it out of the room, when a short, dark-skinned boy of around thirteen – or at least, that's what his body suggested – caught up to him, tugging shyly on his sleeve.

"The Lady Marisa would like a word with you, Mister," he said in a high, clear voice. 

"I was just on my way to--" Steve tried, but the boy only clasped his hands behind his back, barring his path. 

"It'll only take a minute, she said."

Steve sighed. He didn't want to prolong the inevitable, but perhaps a slight delay might give him a chance to catch his breath and gather his thoughts.

"All right," he said. "Lead the way."

He was not entirely surprised when the boy took him to the table of his dark-skinned former rival in the bidding war.

"Ah, well now," she said, looking him up and down very obviously. "The young phoenix gentleman. Do sit down, boy." She waved at the free chair at her side, and Steve, for lack of a better option, took it. 

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't know who you are," he said sheepishly, hoping his frankness would lead him to safer waters.

The woman stared at him intently, for such a long time that Steve had to grit his teeth not to give in to the urge to fidget under the weight of her gaze. Finally, she seemed to have had enough of scrutinising him within an inch of his life.

"Of course you don't. My name is Marisa D'lo, child. And I have seen all I wanted to know, so away wit' you. Take care of that boy, d'you hear now. I couldn't bear to leave him in the clutches of them greedy fiends, Olorun only knows what they would've done to him. But you, Steven Rogers. I can be at peace, knowing he's wit' you, and my husband won't get himself into such a state when he hears of this that he has to run down here and ruin our weekend."

She patted his hand kindly. Her skin felt cool, like the caress of water on parched skin. Steve felt energised, rejuvenated. He still had no idea who she was, but in a way, he didn't need to know. She was kind, and generous, and she had been moved to help where not many people had even bothered to see the problem. 

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, bowing his head. 

He took her approving smile with him as he left, moving with more purpose after that conversation, strange though it had been. He made it through the side door undisturbed this time, trying to get his bearings through the constant movement of wait staff carrying plates and various members of the Council and the auction committee milling around. His eyes caught a flash of silver in the far corner; he took a deep breath, and made his way across the hall. 

He had seen just enough to confirm that it was Barnes and Natasha Romanova talking together, when their voices reached him. 

"….Like a prize fucking stud, God, I am so glad this is over."

"Oh, come off it, James. Sure, it was pretty horrible, but are you trying to tell me you didn't feel the least bit smug, all those people bidding on you? Fighting for the privilege to just spend an evening with you?"

Barnes made a face. "No, I did not. In case you missed it, it was that pervert Vitelli and Madame D'Orizzo. Like they had a damn bet going, Jesus. Never thought I'd say it, but God bless Tony Stark. If only he'd found someone who actually _wanted_ to go out with me; but beggars can't be choosers, they say."

"What makes you think--" Natasha started, but Barnes silenced her with a rueful shake of his head.

"Tasha, don't. I know what I heard. Well. I'll try to make his experience at least a little better than what he obviously expects. After all, I have been told I can be quite the actor."

Steve could not stand to hear any more. He forced his legs to move and walked over to the two of them just as Barnes was shrugging off his silvery jacket, leaving him in a beautifully fitted white shirt and a slim dark-grey tie. He was reaching up to loosen it when he froze in place, clearly noticing Steve for the first time.

"Seven-thirty, Friday evening. Is that a convenient time for you?" Steve made himself say. Time to finish this little charade. No use to pretend that Barnes wanted to be anywhere in his vicinity, and Steve hated the idea that Barnes was being forced to do this. That he had no choice but to agree with anything Steve said. Maybe a few days to prepare might help Steve find the words to tell Barnes what he thought, what he felt when he looked at him. But maybe not. This was Steve's life, after all. Nothing in it was ever easy.

Barnes swallowed and looked at him levelly. "Perfectly convenient, thank you. Location?"

"Do you have any dietary preferences?"

"No."

"In that case, I suggest _The Three Ships_. Is that acceptable?"

"Indeed," Barnes drawled. The expression on his face was nothing Steve could decipher. He thought it best to quit while he was ahead.

"I'll meet you there. Seven-thirty on Friday evening."

"I haven't forgotten," Barnes replied, a hint of temper lashing through his voice. Bizarrely, it made Steve feel better about this, to have some of Barnes' true nature showing through. Maybe there was still a chance this wouldn't be a complete disaster. 

"Have a good evening," Steve said to him, then nodded at Natasha Romanova, who was watching him strangely. Steve didn't care.

He had five days to somehow make sure Barnes didn't end up hating his guts. He had been through tougher missions and come out swinging on the other side. He could do that.

He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marisa D'lo in this chapter is an incarnation of Mami Wata, a water spirit/goddess worshipped in the West, Central, Southern Africa and in the Caribbean. For more information on this amazing deity, [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Sirene) is the Wikipedia article on her.


	6. In which our protagonists have dinner, and things take an interesting turn

The spectre of Friday and the 'date' loomed heavy and ominous in Bucky's mind as the week went on. On Monday, he refused to think about it, immersing himself in his work, making sure his kids were doing okay after the weekend. His group consisted mostly of children from the Orphanage, small things barely learning how to manage their nature. Classes consisted of training disguised as games, potty training management, reading, and naps. It was a great way to unwind from the stress of the past week, dreading the auction and then the day itself, with all the unpleasant revelations it had brought. The kids might be loud and unruly, but at least Bucky knew how to handle _them_.

On Tuesday, he got home after work and went straight to his drinks cabinet. There was a bottle of dandelion wine that had been a present from Thor for taking on his little hell-raiser of a nephew in last year's class; Bucky had been saving it for an occasion when he might need the double-barrelled strength of elvish wine. He could think of nothing more worthy of drinking the whole bottle than the run to the last day of the week. He knew what he had signed up for. They would have to put on a show, be seen to go out together. Bucky was just grateful that Rogers had chosen The Three Ships, Bucky's favourite restaurant in the Forest. The familiar cosy atmosphere should help with acting out the charade. 

Having downed a glass of the delicious golden elixir, Bucky poured himself another and took it into his bedroom, placing it on top of the chest of drawers at the foot of his bed before throwing open his closet. He looked inside with no small apprehension. Most of his clothes nowadays consisted of well-worn jeans and t-shirts, attire that wouldn't get ruined by a bunch of preschoolers tramping all over him and setting fire to the furniture all the time – and that's not even mentioning the arts and crafts days. Grown-up clothing was not much in evidence, if it had ever been. Sure, when he'd been a younger foal, he'd enjoyed dressing up and showing off, had barely left the dance halls before dawn and almost never alone. As the years had gone by, though, he had found himself tiring of that life, longing for the quiet comfort of home on more evenings than not, slowly but surely substituting a night at the pub for a night at home in front of the fireplace with a crime thriller or an Early Education text book, or – recently – the latest season of _Downton Abbey_ , whichever he was in the mood for.

Christ, he was getting old. Worse, he _felt_ old, worn out from a life lived mostly on his own, one or two friends he could stand to spend time with, the inevitable family reunion for his mother's birthday that frayed his nerves worse than a whole room-full of under-six-year-old kids after an Easter chocolate eggs hunt. Most of it wasn't so bad, if he didn't think hard about it – which he tried not to, as a rule. 

Some of it, like going on dates with people who knew what he was and had the according expectations, had turned into a chore that drained him dry.

The result? Well, the result was a grand total of three dress shirts that were not too badly frayed, or faded from too many washes, and one pair of tailored pants he would not be ashamed to be seen wearing in public. On the one hand, good, because then he would not be crippled by having to make a choice and giving himself an anxiety attack in the process.

On the other – on the other, he remembered the way Rogers had looked in those simple clothes he'd worn for the auction: like a Van Gogh painting, all blond hair and blue, blue eyes, skin tanned like he spent most of his life outdoors, the flash of white teeth as he smiled at Wilson. Merlin help him, but Bucky wanted to impress Rogers, to make Rogers take a moment, stop in his tracks at the sight of him. Ridiculous, because Rogers clearly wanted to go on this date about as much as Bucky did – and yet.

Yeah, that elvish wine was coming in handy, all right.

Which meant that Wednesday was mostly spent by Bucky trying not to wince too obviously at the screams and shrieks and loud noises that were the usual accompaniment to his working hours. His head ached and pounded fiercely, and his eyes stung from the bright light. At least he wasn't feeling nauseous; but surely the elves should have thought of this horrendous hangover when they worked their magic on the dandelion juice? Or was it just that Bucky was very much _not_ an elf, and therefore did not have their natural defences. Probably door number two. Merlin, he just wanted this day over.

So, of course, he came stumbling out of the Forest's Ed Academy just past sunset to find Natasha and Clint Barton leaning against the fence that separated the playing fields from the rest of the woods, sharing a mochaccino. At their feet stood a small collection of shopping bags from Macy's that looked crisp enough to be fairly recent acquisitions. Bucky stopped in his tracks, a shiver of foreboding running down his spine. The feeling only deepened when the two of them swiveled their heads in unison to stare at him, identical looks of disturbing speculation on their faces. 

"What?" Bucky said.

It was a mistake. Twenty minutes later, they had harried Bucky into his house, divested him of the safety of his book bag, and sent him into his bedroom along with the six bags of new clothes, with strict instructions to try everything on and come outside so that he could be ogled by the two people he had once imagined to be his friends.

"Aww, don't be like that," Clint crooned. Bucky wanted to stab him in the head kind of a lot. "We wanna make sure you look your best. Rogers is one fine piece of bird, we all think so. I'd be jealous of the way Phil ogles him, except that I got eyes, too."

"Steve Rogers does not even want to be a part of this," Bucky snapped, temper flaring. "Don't know how you managed to talk him into it, but I'm pretty sure he'd rather be cleaning the Academy's septic tank than have dinner with me."

All of a sudden, it was like a wall had come down over Clint's face. 

"Listen to me, Barnes," he said, deadly serious as he leaned in, for once not shying away from the way his huge lower body made him loom over people. "Steve Rogers is one of the most selfless guys I've ever met. I don't know what bee you've got in your bonnet about him, but I'm pretty sure you're labouring under a misapprehension."

"Big words, Barton," Bucky said, and immediately felt like a heel when Clint straightened, something very much like a flinch passing over his features. "I'm sorry," he said, dropping his head in his hands. "That was vicious and bitchy and completely unnecessary, I'm so sorry. I've no idea why this guy's gotten so under my skin. I've barely exchanged three words with him, but I feel like just the mention of him is taking a sandpaper to my insides."

"Hey," Clint said gently. Bucky winced. He definitely did not deserve the sympathy in Clint's voice. "Bucky, why do you think Steve doesn't want to have dinner with you? It's just one date, and it's barely even that."

Bucky let his shoulders slump. He recounted their first meeting for Clint's benefit, tucking his hands under his arms and looking mostly at the floor. He hated the way it made him feel so uncertain, how it made him question itself.

"Huh," Clint said, when Bucky was done. He shared a look with Natasha, who shrugged, tilting her head to one side. "Now, don't chew my head off, but I'm not really hearing 'I don't wanna spend time with this guy' out of what Rogers said. I'm hearing more, 'this guy doesn't want to spend time with _me_ , and I hate to make him'. Believe me or don't, I think you both got off on the wrong foot here. Seriously, I'm telling you, Rogers is the kinda guy who spent almost two decades in Bangladesh, helping them rebuild after the Bhola Cyclone – and didn't differentiate between people or magical creatures, either. He can't look at a problem without wanting to help fix it."

Bucky bristled. "I'm not some problem that needs fixing," he growled. 

Clint actually smacked his face with his palm, groaning in exasperation. "Why you gotta twist everything I say, Barnes? I'm not saying you should be grateful to him or any crap like that, because I know you and I know there's nothing you hate more. I'm just saying, maybe don't disembowel the guy for having the temerity of wanting to help you out. You think you can do that?"

Bucky didn't reply. Looking at Natasha to see what she thought didn't help, either; she was curled in her usual seat on his sofa, watching the both of them darkly from under lowered eyebrows. When she saw him looking at her, she made a face, but nodded grudgingly.

Crap. If Natasha was agreeing with Clint on this, then Bucky really was acting like an asshole.

Shockingly, the realisation did not make him feel any better. 

"Ugh, fine," he conceded with ill grace. "I'll make an effort."

"Good," Clint said briskly, turning him by the shoulders and pushing him back through the door of his bedroom. "Now, try the eggplant shirt with the black slacks and the ruby-red tie."

Bucky hated his life so much.

Wednesday and Thursday flashed by in the blink of an eye and more alcohol than was really advisable for anyone, human or creature. The more Bucky thought about his date, the more nervous he got. Without his resentment of the guy's apparently-misunderstood rejection to hide behind, there was nothing to distract him from just how much he wanted Steve Rogers to like him. To look at him with those cornflower-blue eyes and find something of Bucky Barnes he thought was special. Worth looking at deeper. 

Ridiculous, and yet.

Friday dawned gloomy and rain-soaked, not a hint of blue sky to be seen. Bucky made an executive decision to bring his evening clothes in to work, and get changed in his tiny office after he sent the kids home, rather than trek all the way back to his place in Merlin knew what weather. He didn't want to risk his get-up getting ruined before he'd had the chance to see what Rogers thought of him all dolled up. Rogers hadn't seemed to mind looking at him in the silver suit, so he couldn't be completely indifferent, right?

Bucky grit his teeth and wrenched his thoughts away from replaying every second of their interaction so far, every look Rogers had sent him, every time their eyes had met across the distance. It wasn't helping. As if sensing his distraction, the kids took advantage and went completely off-the-board, staging an impromptu paint war in the middle of his classroom until the only way to call off the hostilities had been to declare a 'powers on' hour, where all the kids ould show off what they'd learned to do that week. It was a good way for Bucky to determine the progress they'd made, too. Geena managed to shift into her fox cub form and back and only have four stray whiskers forgotten at the end of it, miles better than the bushy red tail she had once spent an afternoon tripping over. Sanjeev threw up a shield that protected the roots of the Academy tree, which ran through the centre of the domed building and made up one wall of Bucky's classroom. Onatah made some corn stalks push through the soil right outside the classroom's window. Clarie spoke to the fish in the aquarium and reported that they wanted some more plants to nibble on. Christopher drew frost spirals on the windows, amusing his friends by doing requests for animals and birds. And so it went, with Bucky's attention constantly required so that the game didn't end up in tears. 

If he was honest, there were worse ways to spend an afternoon. The kids were happy and glowing under the praise from their classmates and teacher; Bucky himself got to make them laugh with delight when he set rainbows bouncing off the various crystals hanging from the beams of the classroom. Before he knew it, Sarah's mom was the last to drive out of the parking lot, while Sarah hung out of the window and waved at him and wished him a good weekend. Bucky waved back – because it ought to be a rule, you _always_ waved back when a kid waved at you, it made their day – and closed the classroom window firmly, turning towards his office. 

His heart was in his throat as he unzipped the clothes bag and drew out the sapphire-blue shirt and dark-grey pants, which earlier in the week the fashion police (in the shape of Natasha and Clint) had deemed appropriate for his date. Bucky had time – over an hour before he had to be at the restaurant, which was a ten-minute walk away from the Academy. Time was exactly what he didn't need – there was every chance he would get himself ten times as worked-up if he gave himself a chance to think about what was coming.

Which is how Bucky Barnes found himself hopping with one leg into and one leg out of his pants, trying not to trip over his recently-shined shoes, terrified eyes on the clock pointing at seven-twenty-five pm. Damn that stupid Early Ed report he'd fallen into reading! Sure, it was meant for human pre-school children, but Bucky had always thought that they could learn a thing or two from their human counterparts, and he'd been so busy jotting notes on a legal pad that it had taken him knocking over his phone to realise the time. 

"Shit shit _shit_ ," he yelled, yanking his pants up over his ass and shoving the tails of his shirt into the waistband, buttoning and zipping himself up with the speed of light. Shoes on, tie thrown over his neck to tie on the way, he punched his arms down the sleeves of his lightweight cream linen jacket and ran out of the Academy's front door, the hand not clutching onto the strap of his book bag waving distractedly at Bob, the Academy's janitor. Bob's low wolf-whistle and "Looking _good_ , Mister Barnes!" brought a flush to Bucky's cheeks; he gulped down desperate air, accelerating down the path. Nice that someone thought so, even if it couldn't possibly be true. Bucky hadn't had time to look at a mirror, but he was sure that his hair was all over the place, and his face was an awful shade of puce, and he looked like someone who could not care less what he looked like. 

On any given day, that would be fine. On a day that Bucky actually wanted to make a good impression? It was enough to make him want to head straight home and hide under the covers until this century was over.

He made it to the restaurant only five minutes late, which was a damn surprise and a credit to any gods smiling down on him today. Simone looked up when he burst through the door; she smiled, clearly pleased to see him.

"Bucky, hello! Are you expecting someone?"

Bucky swallowed, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket. "Hi, Simone. Um, someone should be expecting me. I'm late," he told her, wincing. 

Simone drew her pale pink fingernail down the reservation book, stopping at a name. " _Oh,_ " she breathed. "You're having dinner with Mister Rogers tonight, aren't you?"

"Yes," Bucky confirmed, trying to fix his hair as he peered at his faint reflection in the glass wall behind her. "Is he here?"

"Table eight," Simone confirmed. 

Bucky might have whimpered. He wasn't admitting to anything. Simone, clearly taking mercy on him, came out from around her desk, reaching up to knot his tie, which Bucky was mortified to realise was still hanging undone down his chest.

"Thanks," he said, doing up the last button on his shirt and pulling the knot tight, until it was just short of choking him. "How do I look?"

Simone drew appreciative eyes down his body. "Beautiful, darling. Almost beautiful enough that I might try to snap you up, if it weren't for Amanda."

"How is Mandy?" Bucky asked as he tidied himself up one last time, pressing cool hands to his flaming cheeks in a bid to lessen the flush he could see in his reflection.

"Great. Eight months and counting. She's due in three weeks or so."

"We should go out next week, catch up." He meant it, too. Simone and Amanda were two people Bucky would do just about anything for; after fifty years of hanging out together on LGBT nights at The Phoenix's Tail, pulling each other through break-ups and heartbreaks and work crises and family dinners, the two of them were as close to him as his own sister.

"Count on it," Simone agreed. "You can tell us all about Tall, Blond, and Dishy."

Bucky bit his lower lip, peeking through the doorway of the entrance hall. Steve Rogers sat alone at a table tucked away in the far corner of the room, as private as it got in this place. He was wearing a beautiful three-piece navy pinstriped suit, and looked like he'd stepped out of Bucky's more ambitious wet dreams. 

He also looked resigned, and a little sad as he played with the salt shaker from the table set. As if he was expecting Bucky to either not show up, or turn up with guns blazing. Lord, but Bucky had made a mess of this whole thing.

"Okay," he muttered, "I'm going in." He ignored Simone's quickly-stifled giggle.

"Go get him, soldier," she said quietly behind him, as Bucky straightened his shoulders and walked into the room.

The reason why The Three Ships was his favourite restaurant was that no one paid much attention to anyone else. The people who came here weren't rich, or important, or obsessed with their own status. They were just people who wanted to have dinner with a friend, or a loved one, or someone they hoped might turn into either. There was no one staring at him, no one muffling whispers behind his back. He nodded here and there to people he knew – the parents of one of the girls he taught, a guy from his yoga class. All the same, he couldn't really take his attention off the man waiting for him at the designated table – the man who had straightened, too, when he saw him coming, and who was now watching him warily with a blank expression Bucky wished he didn't feel the need to hide behind.

Bucky smiled as he neared the table, a little shy, a lot apprehensive. "Hello," he said softly. 

Rogers stared at him, mouth pouting open as if he had been in the middle of saying something, too, but had forgotten what it was.

"Sorry I'm late," Bucky said, to cover the silence. Rogers blinked, snapping his mouth shut and taking a deep breath.

"You're not really that late," he said, something distracted in his voice. "Want to—" He half-rose, as if to draw Bucky's chair back. Bucky waylaid him by pulling it out himself and sliding into it, propping his book bag next to the table leg on his right.

"So," he said. He could feel his heart fluttering in his throat, and tried not to grip his own hands so tight that his knuckles turned white. "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Not at all," Rogers said, still looking at him oddly. The next second, his eyes caught Bucky's and he flushed, a pretty line of pink at the top of his cheekbones. "Would you like a drink?"

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek so he didn't fall on that question like a starving man. All the same, his "Yes, please," came a touch too fast to be entirely polite. "Sorry," he apologised immediately with a weak laugh. "It's been a long day at work."

Rogers smiled slightly, too, and picked up a bottle of wine. "I ordered red, I hope that's okay?"

"Perfectly, thank you," Bucky agreed, pushing his glass nearer to be filled. 

Rogers put the bottle back on the table, looking at it carefully, as if he was worried he might knock it over.

"Um. To the Orphanage?" he offered, holding his glass out. 

Bucky smiled. Yes, the Orphanage. This is why they were here. It would be ridiculous to toast their...whatever this was, or each other. He was glad Rogers didn't seem to be one of those self-congratulatory types.

"Good choice," he said. "To the Orphanage."

They clinked their glasses, and both drank deeply. Bucky felt slightly calmed by the thought that Rogers appeared to be just as nervous as he was.

"So, um. Long day at work?" Rogers ventured after a long moment of silence while both of them cast for something to say.

Bucky nodded. "Yes. I work as a kindergarten teacher."

He waited for the inevitable scoff, the look of surprise, confusion – or worse, pity. It never came.

"That sounds great," Rogers said, clearly meaning it. "How old are the kids you normally work with?"

Huh.

"Around three to six, just before they start first grade. I have the five-year-olds this year. We rotate annually, there are four groups of students based on their age when they start."

Rogers smiled. "That must be nice," he said. At Bucky's raised eyebrows, he added, "Working with kids, I mean. It must be really inspiring, getting to see how their minds shape up with each passing day."

He shifted in his seat, cheeks pinking again when Bucky just stared at him. "I mean. Isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, that's it exactly," Bucky said slowly. "I'm sorry, it's just that—no one's gotten it before. Well. No one who doesn't work with kids themselves."

Rogers smiled again. He seemed to be doing that a lot, and Bucky was not complaining; no, sir. Rogers had a beautiful smile, like a gentle sun glowing inside him every time he turned it on.

"In that case, I'm not scrapping your theory. I have worked with kids before, spent a few years helping out at schools and orphanages abroad."

Bucky, armed with his Clint-imparted insider information, took that to mean those years Rogers had spent helping people rebuild their lives, when they were torn to pieces by forces outside their control.

"Yeah?" he said, deciding to play it cool. "Did you enjoy it?"

"I did," Rogers replied without hesitation. "Very much. I was hoping that maybe I'd get the chance to do a bit of that here, now that I'm back."

Raheem chose that moment to come over to take their order himself, rather than send Nina or one of the other wait staff on shift. It was an honour Raheem bestowed only on the customers he actually liked, so Bucky decided to feel flattered and not question the reason. (Which was, most likely, that Raheem was just as curious as everyone else about Steve Rogers. It was as if, by returning to their Forest, he had piqued the creatures' curiosity: they wanted to know where he had been, what he had done, seen, learned.)

"Heya, fellas," Raheem said, grin showing most of his pearly-white teeth. "What can I get you tonight?"

Steve, very politely, asked about the specials. With how many different creatures lived in the Forest, the menus of most restaurants included many and varied foods – fish, meats, a variety of vegetarian options that would put most human restaurants to shame. Steve opted for salad with tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil, followed by a wild mushroom risotto. Bucky went with a green salad and a spinach and ricotta pizza with fresh mozzarella and parmesan cheese sprinkled on top. It was his favourite food, and he was in need of some creature comfort tonight. 

"We'll think about desserts later," he said, throwing Rogers a look. Rogers returned it, a strange, almost surprised smile playing on those sinfully plush lips of his.

A shiver of something passed down Bucky's spine, sending tingles to his fingertips. His heart beat faster; he reached for his wine, taking a steadying swallow. Silence fell over their table again. They couldn't seem to stop looking at each other, caught in a moment that felt charged with expectation.

"Look," Rogers said, breaking first. He looked down, sucking in an enormous breath. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. About the way we met. It was the farthest thing from my intentions to imply that having dinner with you would be an unpleasant experience. I was just—it wasn't my idea, and when I'm not in control, I tend to overthink things. But, um." He darted Bucky a look from his ridiculously long eyelashes. "I would've done it anyway. Asked you to dinner. Once we'd met. I would have liked that."

Bucky feelt the back of his neck heat, then his cheeks, then his whole face flushing pink. "Oh," he breathed. He had no idea what to say – except, "I would have liked that, too. I'm sorry I yelled at you. I was—it wasn't you, specifically. I was working through some issues, and you appeared just at the right moment to be a convenient lightening rod."

Rogers ducked his head, but he was smiling, even seemed relieved. "Yeah, I can understand that. It can't have been easy for you, and for that I'm sorry. Um. Would you like to start again?" 

He held out a large, beautifully shaped hand. "Hi," he said. "I'm Steve Rogers. My friends call me Steve. I'd really like to have dinner with you, if you might like that, too."

Bucky's breath tangled somewhere in the base of his throat. Was this man for real?

Whichever way, there he was, sitting across from him with his hand outstretched, waiting patiently for Bucky to make up his mind. Bucky was not going to disappoint him. He held out his hand, too, trying to conceal the warm, excited feeling in his lower belly when strong fingers wrapped around his hand.

"Hi. I'm Bucky Barnes. And yeah, Steve, I would really like to have dinner with you." To seal the deal, Bucky let himself flutter his eyelashes a little, allowed a flirtatious edge to deepen his smile.

Steve looked like someone had just bludgeoned him on the head with something heavy. His fingers squeezed reflexively around Bucky's; he licked his lips.

Something exploded into rainbow-tinged sparks in the centre of Bucky's body, making his breath hitch and heat pool in his groin. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out. He only had eyes for Steve, for the arrested look on his face, the intent in his eyes. 

"Merlin," he whispered, letting go of Steve's hand with some effort and curling his own fingers around his palm, as if to keep the sensation of Steve's touch from fading. 

"Yeah," Steve said, swallowing heavily. He was breathing a little fast, staring at Bucky like he wanted to do unspeakably debauched things to him. Bucky was most definitely not going to stop him if he asked.

Steve yanked his eyes away in the next moment, darting them around the restaurant. For the first time in what seemed like ages, Bucky was aware of the fact that they were in the middle of a room full of people, in plain sight of anyone who wanted to look. Shockingly, no one was; Bucky felt like his whole being had turned inside out, and no one had noticed anything out of the ordinary.

Dinner came, and they ate. They talked about something, but when their plates were cleared, Bucky was hard-pressed to recall what it had been. Steve looked just as distracted; he couldn't stop looking at Bucky, then away again, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. Raheem returned, bearing two glass bowls of delectable chocolate mousse, courtesy of the restaurant. So much for privacy, but Bucky liked Raheem, liked this place and the people who worked here, too. He didn't mind them being party to his date – or what seemed like much, much more.

Wow. His mom hadn't been lying, after all. Because this had to be it, right? Bucky did really have a mate out there in the world, and it was Steve Rogers, a guy whom Bucky had had no idea existed before this week. How was that for 'meant to be'?

"Would you like to get out of here?" Bucky heard himself say. 

Steve was watching him carefully, as if trying to determine what Bucky intended.

"To talk," Bucky clarified, blushing. He wasn't ready for anything more, but surely they had to talk about this? 

...Or wasn't Steve feeling the same things that Bucky was feeling?

Before he could get himself all worked up over what was and wasn't happening, Steve nodded once, decisively. 

"Yes," he said. Bucky really liked that tone in his voice – authoritative, in charge. It made Bucky feel calm, like he finally had someone at his side who was only interested in what Bucky needed, or wanted. "Yes, I think we should."

He signalled for the check, leaving a generous tip on top of the charge. Then he stood, drawing Bucky's chair out like the gentleman he was. Bucky wasn't usually big on those kinds of displays, but this time, he felt...cherished, cared for. It was a strange feeling. He supposed it would take some time to get used to it.

God, he hoped he'd have the chance to.

Outside, it was pouring with rain again, and the ground was soaked to a mud-like consistency that made Bucky feel glad it was the weekend tomorrow, and hopeful that the weather would turn by the end of it.

"Hold on," Steve said, opening up a huge umbrella that Bucky had not noticed before. Steve hesitated, before stepping closer and drawing his arm over Bucky's shoulders.

"Sorry," he said, voice a little stilted. From this close, Bucky would feel every vibration as it exited Steve's chest. It was _intoxicating_. "We have to be close for this to work."

The next moment, Bucky felt a tingle of magic wash over him, and when Steve nudged him into walking, his feet only touched dry, flat surface. 

"I don't live far," Steve said quietly. "If that's okay with you. Or would you prefer to go to your place?"

Bucky listened hard, and replayed the words, but he could detect no preference one way or the other. Steve would truly do what Bucky asked. In all his years, he had only known a handful of people who had ever done him that courtesy – and none he'd ever dated.

"Your place is fine," he said. 

Steve's hold tightened around him, and Bucky realised with a start that he was shivering. It was cold, true enough, the chill of the rain worming under his clothes and into his bones, but Bucky didn't think that was the only reason for it.

They stopped at a fae light, waiting for the road to clear of the heavy traffic brought on by the rainfall.

"Bucky," Steve said. Bucky's breath hitched. It was the first time Steve had said his name, and now Bucky never wanted him to stop.

"Yes?" he said faintly.

Steve took a deep breath and let it out again. "I need to know something."

Bucky turned to look at him. His face was so close that he could feel Steve's breath tease over his cheekbones. The sensation reached somewhere deep inside him, soothed an ache that he hadn't realised was there at all.

Steve looked back, steady and calm, someone Bucky could brace himself on, could see in his life for years – a lifetime – to come.

"I need to know that this isn't just because of the auction. That this – whatever we're doing right now, what's happening between us – please, tell me it isn't because you feel in some way _obligated_ , because—I don't think I could stand that," he finished in a rush, before Bucky could do more than open his mouth to object. He bit his lip, looking so uncomfortable that Bucky's indignation subsided before it had had a chance to explode.

"No," he said. He brought his hand up tentatively, placing it in the crook of the elbow of Steve's arm that was holding the umbrella. "It's not because of that. I wouldn't do that. No matter the circumstances, I wouldn't. Not like this."

Steve swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "That's good," he said hoarsely, so much relief in his voice that Bucky pressed closer instinctively, turning his shoulder into Steve's half-embrace, his forehead coming to rest on Steve's temple. 

"Yeah," he said. 

In all honesty, he could have stayed like that for decades.

The light had changed several times while they'd stood there; impatient pedestrians circled them irritably, jostling Steve. Bucky felt his temper flare, wanted to reach around and smack whatever asshole had the temerity to treat Steve like that, with so little consideration. Steve merely tucked Bucky more safely into his side, and lead them across the road when the light glowed green again, turning them for home.


	7. In which Steve and Bucky reach an understanding and one thing leads to another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so fluffy that frankly I am a little embarrassed. But what the hell, this _is_ a fairy tale. Do note the change in story rating.  >:D
> 
> It's also dedicated to my darling Anna on the occasion of her birthday, because she is the magic rainbow glitter unicorn to my quiet little forest and she deserves all the happy fluffy joy. ILU BB. <3
> 
> We're almost there, guys. Maybe an epilogue to come, two more chapters tops. :)

Steve unlocked the door to his apartment with hands that were very nearly steady. Seeing as Bucky was standing close enough to his back that Steve could bask in his body heat without actually angling for it, as if Bucky too could not bear to be even a step further away than was absolutely necessary, Steve thought he was doing a pretty good job at not dropping his keys on his foot. Bucky smelled like paint and chalk powder, woodland moss and cedar wood warmed by the sun. A tang of wild magic added a citrusy note to the overall scent, enough that Steve wanted to press him against the wall and bury his nose in his neck and never move again. He felt like he was falling; like gravity had ceased to have any meaning; like Bucky was the last solid thing in the world and Steve was clinging on by his fingertips. 

He pushed the door open at last and walked inside, thrilled when Bucky followed closely. The door clicked shut behind them like a full stop, the start of another volume of his life. Steve dropped his keys in the small clay dish he kept for that purpose, then shrugged off his jacket and toed off his shoes. When he turned around, he found Bucky standing still, one hand fisted in the strap of his book bag, eyes dark and leveled on him. Steve darted a look down at himself, to make sure he hadn't dripped any chocolate on his shirt. His gaze snagged on the vest he was wearing. It was such an infrequent occasion that Steve had almost forgotten it was part of the suit. 

Evidently, Bucky very much remembered. The way his eyes skimmed Steve's shoulders, his chest, his abdomen, had Steve's skin tingling under the layers of cotton and yeti wool. He deliberately flexed his shoulders, a flash of heat licking down his spine when Bucky followed the movement greedily, breath hitching and fingers spasming on the leather. 

A moment later, Bucky's gaze slid up his chest and reached his face again. Unshaded by his sinfully thick dark lashes, pale blue eyes found Steve's, so full of intent that it was Steve's turn to feel winded.

"So," Bucky said. "I'm gonna take a wild guess here and assume it's not just me who's feeling like I'm gonna come apart at the seams." 

His voice pooled through the air like liquid silk, the warm drawl making parts of Steve wake up that had never been sensitive before. The base of his spine, the backs of his knees, his inner thighs longed for Bucky's touch. Steve dared to imagine what that voice would feel like purring in his ear, and had to bite his lip against the spike of sensation lodging in his balls. 

"Uh," he croaked, then had to stop and cough to clear his throat. "That's a definite 'yes', even if I have no idea what's going on."

"Don't you?" Bucky murmured. 

Steve swallowed dryly, fingers clutching at his jacket for dear life. He had the crazy thought that he was being seduced, though whether it was by Bucky's desire or his own need to put his hands all over Bucky's body, he wasn't sure.

"I know what I think is happening, but—well." He laughed self-consciously. "For obvious reasons, I've never felt this way before. No point of reference."

Bucky ducked his head, his lovely eyes looking up at Steve through the fringe of his lashes. It was positively unfair, Steve thought.

"Clearly, I know as much as you in that department. I do know that my skin feels like it's too small for my body – and like I might die if I don't touch you."

Steve swayed closer helplessly, unable to hide his reaction to Bucky's words. 

"When you look at me, I feel like there's a hook in my gut, reeling me in towards you. I have to get closer. And your voice – it sends goosebumps flaring everywhere," he confessed, so quietly that he wouldn't have been surprised if Bucky hadn't heard him. 

"Right now? I need to breathe less than I need to kiss you," Bucky whispered, and how was Steve ever supposed to resist that?

They came together in a clash of bodies, chest against chest, limbs entwining as if being separated would be a fate worse than death. Steve groaned desperately when Bucky's mouth opened on his, drunk on the way his tongue slid right in. He didn't realise his hand was fisted in Bucky's hair until he tried to bring them closer. The soft strands teased his knuckles, the pads of his fingers. The noise Bucky made when Steve tilted his head for a better angle was so deeply, thrillingly erotic that Steve's hips snapped forward without his direction, knee worming between Bucky's legs. Bucky's hands closed on Steve's ass, yanking him in to press against him from knee to shoulder, and Steve actually felt the fire race up his back, along his limbs to lick at Bucky's skin.

Bucky gasped into his mouth. Steve's eyes cracked open to see flames enveloping them both, tinged red with his lust. His heart nearly stopped in his chest. Sure, his fire didn't normally hurt the people it touched, not unless Steve wanted it to, but what if Bucky had an adverse reaction? What if his skin was hypersensitive to fire magic? _What if Steve hurt him?_ The thought was a lance through his chest, dousing the fog of arousal enough that he could start pulling the flames back into himself, settle them under his skin where they belonged. 

Bucky, though... Instead of leaping back as far away from Steve as his legs could carry him, he let out a breathy keen and pressed closer, wound his arms around Steve's neck and plastered himself against his front, warm and alive, a sinful line of taut muscles flexing in Steve's embrace. 

"Oh, Merlin," Bucky moaned. When Steve looked into his face, his eyes were all pupil, sparking with desire. His mouth, plush and reddened from Steve's kisses, pouted open; the sharp tip of his tongue darted out, licking along the top lip.

Steve's pants abruptly turned into a torture device around his dick and balls.

"Do that again," Bucky demanded roughly, scraping blunt teeth along the edge of Steve's jaw. 

"It doesn't hurt?" Steve asked, heart in his throat with apprehension. 

"It feels _amazing_ ," Bucky drawled, shifting in a fluid arch that brought their hips even closer. "I can feel you all around me, like feathers caressing my skin. God, I can only imagine what this'll feel like when I'm naked."

Steve just about stopped breathing. The image Bucky's words conjured was pure enchantment, a seduction all on its own. The way he phrased it – like it was only a matter of time – it made Steve's gut leap, shot pleasure through his insides the likes of which Steve hadn't felt for decades – if ever. 

"Is that what you want?" he managed, fingers tingling where they pressed to delicious, warm skin. 

Bucky pulled back, looking at his face. The energy between them shifted, changed; arousal gave way to something less urgent yet just as intense, something that soothed Steve in the same breath as it made him yearn for more. Bucky's mouth quirked slowly, into such a sweet, affectionate smile that Steve's chest felt like it might crack open with emotion, with the need to keep this man close to him always.

"It is," Bucky said quietly, eyes on his. "I know we've only just met. I know it's impossible, unrealistic, that I should feel this way; that the mere thought of having you close for the rest of my life sends such a surge of endorphins through my bloodstream. It doesn't change the fact that this is _exactly_ how I feel. And it should terrify me. If someone had told me even yesterday that I could feel this way about another person, I'd have galloped for the hills."

Despite his words, Bucky's expression hadn't changed. His eyes were still soft, glowing with an inner magic that made Steve's fingers clench on his back. Bucky leaned in, deliberately pressing their mouths together in a deep, thorough kiss, just the right kind of messy to send want streaking down Steve's spine.

"I want everything I can get," Bucky said, so quiet it was no more than a breath in Steve's ear. "I want everything you want to give me. God help me, I'll take one night if that's all you want with me.

"I'll also take forever," he added in a whisper against Steve's skin, pressing his face into Steve's neck like he thought he should hide from Steve's reaction.

Steve had never been so in love with anyone in his life like he was right then, ridiculous be damned.

"You might not like me," he warned, voice rough with just how much he was feeling. "I've been told I snore horribly. And we'll need to redecorate way more often than you suspect, you can never get ash out of every nook and cranny. I've got a hell of a temper, which doesn't help with the interior design bill. I tend to nest for nearly a month out of every season, and I get clingy."

Bucky put his fingers over his mouth. The pads were so soft, Steve couldn't stop the urge to kiss them, to find out what Bucky's skin tasted like. Bucky exhaled roughly, mouth falling open before he dragged his eyes away from Steve's lips. 

"Let me guess," he said wryly. "You also molt, and you have an irrational dislike of cats. Steve. If you think this is meant to scare me off, you've got another thing coming. Not least because the idea of you all puffed up and covered in tufts of feathers is entirely too adorable for a grown creature to admit to."

Steve was dimly aware that he was gaping, though whether it was due to adoration or indignation, the jury was out. Bucky stroked his thumb over his lower lip, following the path with half-lidded eyes. Steve could not help himself; he nipped sharply on the finger in retaliation, before sucking it into his mouth and down past the first knuckle. Bucky's breath hitched; he swayed closer, bracing his chest on Steve's. His hips started to move in maddeningly arousing circles against Steve's; he never looked away from Steve's mouth. Just the idea of Bucky pulling his finger out, pressing onto Steve's shoulders until Steve was on his knees, one of those beautifully agile hands opening his flies and pulling himself out so Steve merely had to lean in and take the hot, delicious length of him into his mouth, oh _God_ \--

"Anyway," Bucky said, shattering Steve's fantasy with a shake of his head, like he, too, was trying to knock some thought loose from his brain. Even lost in the spell of lust they had woven around them, Steve was helplessly, thoroughly charmed by the pink tinge to the hops of his cheekbones, the tips of his ears. "You're not the only one who comes with issues. Try waking up with your horn skewering a pillow, or getting stalked by tweens begging you for sparkly rainbow glitter for their art kits – or by their parents, who keep making terrible horn puns and pat your head indulgently." 

The face he was making was so ridiculously cute that Steve didn't even think about resisting. He leaned in and kissed those pouting lips, pressed their mouths together until Bucky's parted on a sigh, letting him inside. 

"And then there's the pencils everywhere, and the modeling clay, and the--"

Steve kissed him again, wetter this time, delighting in the way Bucky swayed closer, bracing his arms on his chest and letting Steve take everything he wished.

"How are you so..." Steve gasped, once they drew apart for air. His lips felt bruised and stung; his dick was hard enough that he could probably drill through the wall. His hands, acquiring a life of their own, framed Bucky's face, stroking wondering fingers over Bucky's perfect features, the wings of his brows, the strong jaw with a faint smattering of late-night stubble. 

"Ridiculous?" Bucky supplied when Steve hesitated, searching for a word, any word that could describe how amazing he found this man. "Weird? Difficult?" 

There was a strange twist to Bucky's mouth as he spoke, one that Steve was not sure he liked.

"Perfect," he stated firmly, holding Bucky's gaze, letting Bucky see just how much Steve meant it. 

He didn't know what his face disclosed, but he felt his heart skip a beat when Bucky's expression cleared and his eyes shone like stars: a kid who had just been told he could have everything he wanted.

"I'm not the only one who's perfect," Bucky said, and the look he gave Steve was so full of awe that Steve couldn't stand it, couldn't take the feeling in his chest, like his heart was growing too big for his skin to contain.

"I want this," he declared, had never been so certain about anything in his life. "I want _you_. Now, tomorrow, for the next three centuries, until we're both ashes in the ground. I don't think I'll ever stop wanting you. I don't care if your hooves leave gouges in our floors, or if I spend my life permanently trying to wash glitter out of my hair. I don't care if we can never walk down the street without being mobbed by kids eager for your attention. I only care if you want this, too. Want me. Do you?"

He looked into Bucky's eyes, half-afraid of the answer but needing to hear it anyway. Didn't think he could do this if Bucky didn't tell him, didn't acknowledge that it was the same for him. That he was with Steve, wherever it took them.

It seemed like he needn't have worried. Bucky's eyes were bright and clear, his smile was so full of a kind of disbelieving joy that Steve's chest felt tight, stunned anew by just how deeply his love for this man had burrowed under his skin so soon after meeting him. What might their lives together be like in a month, a year, a decade? Would Steve ever again be able to go through his day without wondering a dozen times what Bucky might be doing, how he was feeling, what it was that made him smile just at that moment?

Would Steve even want to, if he could? If he had to trade having Bucky for going back to his lonely, solitary existence, with no one but himself to mind?

Even now, with merely the lightest of tastes of what they could be together, a single evening of talking to Bucky, and basking in his smiles, and having him sit across from him, touch him, sigh and melt into his arms – Steve knew that even if he could go back, he would forever miss it, and his life would feel like an empty husk without Bucky in it.

Grudgingly, he had to admit that all that talk of the magic of bonding and finding your mate didn't have it altogether wrong.

"I do," Bucky replied, after watching Steve for so long that Steve almost did not expect to get an answer. "I do want you. And I don't care what I have to do, or what you think I'll have to put up with. I'll make any trade I have to just to keep you."

The sincerity and determination Steve could see in every inch of Bucky's frame was humbling, nearly enough to bring him to his knees. He couldn't control the need to lean in and seal the deal against Bucky's lips, safe and warm between them, everything Steve had dreamed about even when he hadn't known it was there to covet.

Lost in the kiss, he shivered when cool hands found their way under his shirt, stroking up the sensitive skin of his ribs. Bucky licked into his mouth with purpose, as if he needed to memorise Steve's taste. Shaking, Steve let him, opened up to Bucky's invasion, relished the needy gasp it earned him. 

"Bed," Bucky murmured into his lips. "Please. I need to—Steve. I need you."

Steve would do just about anything in the world to keep hearing Bucky saying those words, his name, in that voice. Bucky's shirt fell to the floor somewhere on the other side of the bedroom door; he slid his palms over Steve's still-buttoned vest.

"God, I want to take this off with my teeth," he growled, before making short work of myriad buttons, vest and shirt and pants, stripping them off Steve like they offended him somehow. Naked, Steve let his knees buckle and dump him to sprawl on top of his bed, sheets cool and smooth under his back and thighs. Bucky's dark eyes burned as he pushed his own pants off, his underwear, his socks. Gloriously naked, he crawled on top of Steve, caressing every inch of Steve's skin with his hands, his body, his mouth. Steve shuddered helplessly, legs falling open; he dragged his hands over the smooth, gorgeous muscles of Bucky's back just to feel him sigh and arch into it like a well-pleased cat. 

"Yes," he whispered as Bucky sucked a vicious mark into his neck, way above where any collar could hide it. Bucky's cock left wet trails on his stomach, the hard length of him seeking friction that Steve was more than happy to provide. Hands trailed over his body, fingers digging in, tweaking a nipple, scraping nails over the side of his abdomen. Steve wound his arms around Bucky's shoulders and held on tight, lifting into the pressure. 

"Please," he keened when Bucky's mouth hovered, breathing hot air over the head of his cock; and then Bucky was there, taking him into his mouth, clever tongue flicking wickedly until Steve's whole body was on fire. Flames bloomed outward from his skin, caressing Bucky where he could not reach. Bucky moaned around his cock, a feedback loop that made Steve feel like he might dissolve in the heat, like his very bones were burning. 

"Baby," he moaned, and Bucky sucked hard as one finger pressed against the skin behind Steve's balls, moving backwards, teasing the edge of Steve's opening. 

Jesus Christ, this man was going to kill him, and Steve would go happily.

One of his hands pawed clumsily at the bedside table currently somewhere above his head, twisted and pulled until his fingers closed triumphantly on a bottle of lube.

"Here," he croaked, throat dry from need. "Please. I want you so badly."

Bucky pulled off with a slick pop, eyes nearly black.

"God, do you have any idea," he said roughly, before catching the lube Steve threw and flicking the cap open. One slick hand closed around his cock, flushed a pretty pink against almost silvery skin. Bucky seemed to shine just then, something of his magic coming through, making him look so beautiful Steve wondered if he even belonged to this world at all. 

"Angel," he whispered, incoherent with pleasure, and Bucky smirked, reached between his legs.

"Smooth talker," he drawled, right before his fingers slipped inside Steve's ass and it was all Steve could do not to throw himself off the bed with how hard he bucked into it. 

"Bucky," he groaned, biting at his lower lip, one hand fisting into the pillow under his head so hard that he heard a faint tearing sound. The other hand was curled tight over one of the wrought iron bars of his bed, iron he couldn't burn if he happened to have a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. More than once, morning had found him in a nest of ashes, iron frame glowing red with the heat. 

He felt like he might set everything on fire right then with how much he needed Bucky to push into him, to feel Bucky inside.

"Come on," he said, "come on, don't you want to, don't you want me to take you in, don't you want to see me stretched around your cock, don't you want to push balls-deep inside me, make me take you, make me writhe just from the feel of you breaching me open?" He could hardly recognise his own voice; his face was on fire from the things he was saying, but it felt so right, he wanted it so much, Bucky _had_ to know how much Steve wanted him.

"Mary, Merlin, and Balthasar," Bucky growled, pulling his fingers out and pushing one of Steve's legs up, folding it towards his chest. "You're going to kill me."

"Hopefully not before you fuck me," Steve said, made bold by how much Bucky appeared to enjoy it. 

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky said, but it was distracted; his eyes were locked on where the head of his cock was nudging inside Steve's body, stinging and painful and _amazing_. "Is this okay?"

Instead of trying to find words that eluded him, Steve moaned in response, lifting into the pressure. Bucky's cock slipped past the tight ring of muscle, and then he was filling Steve in earnest, claiming him, bonding him to Bucky in all the ways that mattered. The world fell away, left just the two of them together in this bed, a place filled with gasps and helpless groans and whispered pleas, endearments that neither was quite sure who voiced first. Steve felt like he was only now alive for the first time; his fire flared outwards, enfolded Bucky, kissed against Bucky's skin as Bucky took him deep and hard, as Bucky's breathing fractured and he fell forward to claim Steve's mouth, too, as Steve curled all of his body around him, canted his hips, took all that Bucky wanted to give him. The orgasm rushed over him without warning, no stopping it, nothing to do but let it tear through his body and wring him dry, sated, clinging to Bucky with all the strength he had left.

"What. The hell," Bucky panted into Steve's neck, arms just as tight around Steve's waist. 

"Yeah," Steve sighed. He felt claimed, wanted; he felt like a piece had clicked inside him, filling his abdomen with warmth, his chest with joy. 

When Bucky stirred, Steve thought he'd want to get up, wash the sweat and come off his skin, maybe get dressed and leave, which would be singularly awful, but which Steve would endure with as much grace as he could muster if it was what Bucky wanted.

But all Bucky did was roll closer, tuck himself against Steve's side and sigh in contentment, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the skin of Steve's shoulder; and yeah, yeah, okay. This, Steve could do all day long.


	8. In which our story comes to an end, but not before a surprise for our protagonists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. We're done with this fluff fest. :D A million thanks to all of you for indulging me, I hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as I have. <3

"Ya know, for someone who doesn't give two feathers about finding her own mate, you're sure being awfully smug about this whole thing."

On the other end of the phone line, Natasha was suspiciously silent. Bucky would've bet the remaining Elven wine that she was smirking at his expense.

"Where is your illustrious other half, anyway?" she asked, and yep, Bucky could hear the amusement in her voice loud and clear.

"Don't change the subject," he grumbled, but unbent enough to say, "He's meeting Fury and Stark. Something about defensive magic and projections and stuff, I don't know."

That was such a lie. He knew exactly what Steve was discussing with Fury and part of his secret coven. It was impressive, heady stuff; Steve Rogers, Bucky had quickly realised, was extremely good at strategic thinking in addition to being shockingly smart. It was enough to make a guy swoon, and that was before Steve had proceeded to outline exactly how he thought he could ensure the continuing prosperity of the Forest.

But, a) Steve had told him most of this was being kept strictly on the down-low until they had hammered out the logistics, and Bucky wasn't sure how much even he was supposed to know about it; and b) he and Steve had only been together for a few weeks now, and Bucky _refused_ to be the guy who _would not shut up_ about his partner. He hated those people; it's like they didn't have a life of their own outside what their significant other did or said or thought. Bucky was determined not to blabber on and on about Steve to his friends, no matter how much he might want to. 

"Smart cookie, your boy," Natasha murmured. "I'm glad it's not just biology making you smitten."

"Tasha," Bucky complained, but boy was she right. All along, Bucky had been resigned to ending up as someone's plaything, to be showed off when it suited them and put away in a box afterwards. He knew of not one and two creatures trapped in a loveless match by the demands of their body's hormones. He was so unbelievably lucky with Steve that, if he was honest, he still couldn't quite get his head around it.

"What? Tell me I'm wrong," Natasha challenged.

Staring at a photograph on a nearby bookshelf, of Steve surrounded by clinging, beaming children in what must have been Bangladesh, where Steve had spent so much time helping out, Bucky didn't have the strength – or the desire to deny it. He was just opening his mouth to concede the point when a key turned in the lock, and the front door to Steve's apartment swung inwards.

"Hi, honey, I'm home," Steve yelled, sounding just as delighted to be saying it as the previous several dozen times that Bucky had heard the words.

"I guess your boo is home," Natasha said, muffling a laugh. 

Unfortunately, Bucky was much too distracted by the sunny smile on Steve's face, and the way his eyes lit up when they landed on him, to be able to come up with the crushing setback she deserved.

"Call you later," he muttered, thumb already hovering on the end call button. He dropped the phone on the top of the decorative table next to Steve's West-facing window, and stepped forward – straight into Steve's arms.

He would never, ever, _ever_ get tired of the way Steve kissed him after they had been apart, even for just a few hours. Steve put everything of himself into the touch; he held Bucky like he was something precious, something Steve was lucky to be allowed to call his own, rather than the other way round. Bucky never wanted to step out of his arms.

"Hi," he said when Steve pulled back, lips flushed and pouting and making him look positively pornographic. "How'd it go?"

Steve beamed at him. "Really great," he said. "Tony said my reasoning was sound, and there was no thaumological reason it shouldn't work. Clint said it's almost time to put it to the council, too, Nick and Phil have been working hard on figuring out the right angle."

Bucky couldn't help the thrilled smile that took over his face. He was sure he looked ridiculously besotted, but frankly, he did not give a good goddamn who knew it. He loved his mate. That was all that mattered. "Congratulations, darling," he said, pulling Steve in for another thorough kiss. Steve let him have his way, before pulling back to stroke a thumb over Bucky's lower lip.

"I like it when you call me that," he confessed, flushing. It was an adorable look on him.

"I know," Bucky said, before curling his tongue over the top of Steve's finger. Steve's eyes went dark and hungry. "I think we should celebrate your success."

"It's not a done deal yet," Steve tried to protest, but Bucky wasn't having any of it.

"It's as good as," he said, rolling his eyes. "Now stop being modest and let me show you how much I enjoy your brain."

Steve's breath hitched. "You won't get any arguments from me," he said, voice dipping into that pitch that made Bucky's groin tighten automatically. 

They were making out against the wall next to Steve's bedroom, all wet and dirty and just how Bucky loved it, when a stray thought made him chuckle against Steve's throat.

"What?" Steve rumbled, amused. His flames were licking softly against Bucky's skin, caressing and comforting and feeling like home already. 

Bucky shrugged. "Oh, nothing. I was just thinking it's a good thing neither of us can get pregnant, because the way we're going at it, we'd have a brood on our hands before too long."

Steve went still against him. When Bucky pulled back to look at his face, he found it nearly maroon with how much Steve was blushing.

"Uh," Steve said faintly. "About that."

\---

_five years later_

"Dad! Dad!" Shannon yelled from outside Bucky's classroom window. He poked his head out, along with most of his class, who greeted his daughter with shrieks of delight. 

"Dad, _look_!" she yelled again before Bucky could reply, clearly too excited for patience. She had Steve's colouring, long hair blond like an ear of corn, eyes the exact shade of the sky bathed in sunlight. She spread her arms and called up her Phoenix flames, face taut with concentration. She'd been getting better and better this past month at controlling them; she was too bright for her age, there was no doubt of that, always rushing ahead when both Bucky and Steve wished she would wait, enjoy her carefree childhood more. The flames fanned out from her skin, dancing yellows and oranges, beautiful to see. 

And then she narrowed her eyes and bit her lower lip, and suddenly, the flames were tinged with rainbows sparkling with silvery glitter, turning her into something that had even Bucky gasping with how beautiful she looked.

"Wow," he yelled back, giving her excited thumbs-up. "Best girl, that's amazing. Did you show your Pops? He'll be thrilled."

Shannon grinned so hard at him, her eyes almost disappeared above her cheeks. "Not yet, he's busy with Aunt Tasha and Uncle Sam," she said. "We can show him tonight, he'll have a cow!"

More like another egg, Bucky thought to himself, biting at the inside of his cheeks not to betray exactly how the idea of that made him feel. Steve had been hinting for some time that they could try for another, now that he knew how to control the reproductive magic alive inside him. Shannon had sure taken them both by surprise – but just as he'd said when Steve had asked, he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Sure, baby. We'll do that. Wanna come in and play with the class?" He had the six-year-olds this year, so that meant an extra hour of activities while Shannon had finished for the day already.

"Do I," she agreed, batting her lashes at Annis, Pepper and Tony's daughter, who looked far too thrilled to see her. Oh, boy. This was going to be an interesting relationship to watch, Bucky thought to himself. Shannon was already giving Steve white feathers; coupled with Annis? They'd turn him into the first white Phoenix in existence.

Bucky couldn't wait to see it.


End file.
